Is't not a pity now, that tickling rheums
Should ever tease the lungs and blear the fight
Of oracles like these? Great pity too,

That, having wielded th' elements, and built
A thousand systems, each in his own way,
They fhould go out in fume, and be forgot?
Ah! what is life thus fpent? and what are they
But frantic who thus fpend it? all for smoke—
Eternity for bubbles, proves at last

A fenfeless bargain. When I fee fuch games
Play'd by the creatures of a Pow'r who fwears
That he will judge the earth, and call the fool
To a fharp reck❜ning that has liv'd in vain;
And when I weigh this feeming wisdom well,
And prove it in th' infallible refult

So hollow and fo falfe-I feel my heart
Diffolve in pity, and account the learn'd,
If this be learning, most of all deceiv'd.
Great crimes alarm the confcience, but it fleeps
While thoughtful man is plausibly amus❜d.
Defend me, therefore, common fenfe, say I,
From reveries fo airy, from the toil
Of dropping buckets into empty wells,
And growing old in drawing nothing up!

Twere well, fays one fage erudite, profound,

Terribly arch'd and acquiline his nofe,
And over-built with molt impending brows,

'Twere well, could you permit the world to live
As the world pleafes. What's the world to you?—
Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk,

As fweet as charity, from human brealts,
I think, articulate, I laugh and weep,
And exercife all functions of a man,
How then fhould I and any man that lives
Be ftrangers to each other ? Pierce my vein,
Take of the crimson ftream meand'ring there,
And catechife it well; apply your glass,

Search it, and prove now if it be not blood
Congenial with thine own: and, if it be,
What edge of fubtlety canft thou fuppofe
Keen enough, wife and skilful as thou art,
To cut the link of brotherhood, by which
One common Maker bound me to the kind?
True; I am no proficient, I confefs,
In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift
And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds,
And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath;
I cannot analyse the air, nor catch

The parallax of yonder luminous point,

That feems half quench'd in the immense abyss.
Such pow'rs I boaft not-neither can I reft

A filent witnefs of the headlong rage

Or heedlefs folly by which thousands die,
Bone of my bone, and kindred fouls to mine.

God never meant that man fhould fcale the heav'ns By ftrides of human wisdom. In his works, Though wond'rous, he commands us in his word To feek Him rather, where his mercy fhines. The mind, indeed, enlighten'd from above, Views him in all; afcribes to the grand cause The grand effect; acknowledges with joy - His manner, and with rapture taftes his style. But never yet did philofophic tube, That brings the planets home into the eye Of obfervation, and difcovers, elfe

Not vifible, his family of worlds,

Discover him that rules them; fuch a veil
Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth,
And dark in things divine. Full often, too,
Our wayward intellect, the more we learn
Of nature, overlooks her author more;
From inftrumental causes proud to draw
Conclufions retrograde, and mad mistake.
But if his word once teach us, fhoot a ray
Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal
Truths undifcern'd, but by that holy light,

Then all is plain. Philofophy, baptiz'd
In the pure fountain of eternal love,
Has eyes indeed; and viewingall fhe fees
As meant to indidcate a God to man,

Gives Him his praife, and forfeits not her own.
Learning has born fuch fruit in other days
On all her branches: piety has found

Friends in the friends of fcience, and true pray'r
Has flow'd from lips wet with Caftalian dews.
Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike fage!
Sagacious reader of the works of God,
And in his word fagacious. Such too thine,
Milton, whofe genius had angelic wings,
And fed on manna! And fuch thine, in whom
Our British Themis gloried with just cause,
Immortal Hale! for deep difcernment prais'd,
And found integrity, not more than fam'd
For fanctity of manners undefil'd.

All flesh is grafs, and all its glory fades
Like the fair flow'r difheyell'd in the wind;
Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream:
The man we celebrate muft find a tomb,
And we that worthip him, ignoble graves.
Nothing is proof against the gen'ral curfe
Of vanity, that feizes all below.

The only amaranthine flower on earth

Is virtue; th' only lafting treafure, truth.
But what is truth? 'twas Pilate's question, put
To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply.
And wherefore? will not God impart his light
To them that afk it?-Freely-'tis his joy,
His glory, and his nature, to impart.
But to the proud, uncandid, infincere,
Or negligent, inquirer, not a spark.

What's that which brings contempt upon a book,
And him who writes it; tho' the style be neat,
The method clear, and argument exact?
That makes a minifter in holy things

The joy of many, and the dread of more,
His name a theme for praife and for reproach?.
That, while it gives us worth in God's account,
Depreciates and undoes us in our own?

What pearl is it that rick men cannot buy,
That learning is too proud to gather up ;
But which the poor, and the defpis'd of all,
Seek and obtain, and often find unfought?
Tell me and I will tell thee what is truth.

O, friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Domeftic life in rural leifure pafs'd!